


Wandering Exile

by norskhg



Category: The Walking Dead & Related Fandoms, The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Age Difference, Angst, Backstory, Canon + Original Character, Canon Compliant, Drama, F/F, F/M, Forbidden Love, Intended to be a You/Rick story but I decided to give "you" a name and backstory, Mostly canon except no Rick/Michonne, Prison, Romance, Season 3 and Onward, Sex, Smut, Violence, age gap
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-14
Updated: 2021-01-11
Packaged: 2021-03-01 21:47:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 9
Words: 17,899
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23644099
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/norskhg/pseuds/norskhg
Summary: Reese Larsen spends her 18th birthday alone, wandering a desolate walker-infested America in hopes of reuniting with her estranged older brother, an inmate at the West Georgia Correctional Facility. It only takes eight months of solitary travel from South Dakota through the shattered states. When Reese finally reaches the prison on the other side of the country, her pursuit for her brother is cut short by Rick and the rest who capture her for trespassing. Her first night locked up inside the prison is only the beginning of her long journey with the crew.
Relationships: Daryl Dixon/Beth Greene, Rick Grimes/Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 28
Kudos: 76





	1. First Impression

_ West Georgia Correctional Facility, 25 miles _

I blink at the sign in disbelief, waiting for it to change and say something different. My mind hasn’t been too reliable lately. I blink again. Still, 25 miles.  _ 25 miles.  _ I can walk that in a day. I can be there  _ today. _

Amidst the elation also creeps up the dread. That awful dread that weighs heavy in the stomach, bubbling up like fluttering butterflies before I choke on them in my tight throat. I swallow, pushing past the racing thoughts of what-could-be. The thing is, I won’t know what-could-be until I see it with my own eyes. Until I park this rusty old truck outside those prison walls, walk in, and find my brother.

Or not.

Or worse: maybe I  _ will _ find my brother. Dead. Walking. Screeching, clawing, running toward me. I’ve envisioned it so many times that it now feels inevitable.

“One bullet left,” I say aloud to myself. I hope I won’t have to use it.

I take one last glance at the road sign before flooring it, careening this bumpy truck down the cracked road, the sun glaring on the muddy windshield. The rusted metal body squeaks as it shifts over the rough road. It feels like the truck will crumble at any bump in the gravel. I don’t care though; I push my foot harder into the pedal and ride this road till the gas runs out.

///

It’s late afternoon, judging by the sun, by the time the truck finally gives out, sputtering to a slow stop. With no other cars in sight, I’ve got to take the rest of the journey by foot. Can’t be more than 5 miles now. If memory serves me right, the prison should be just down this road and to the left.

I’d only visited my brother once - 4 years ago. Dumb fuck got himself locked up not one week after leaving home in South Dakota to make a new life for himself down here in Georgia. My mom and sister never visited him. Not after what he did. But my dad wouldn’t give up on the kid -  _ couldn’t _ give up on him. And now that my dad’s gone, I can’t give up on him either.

I rummage through my backpack and down the last of the water I have left. Even after the last drop hits my tongue, I shake the canteen, hoping for one more sip. My mouth is dry as chalk. My lips are cracked and sore. I curse at the empty canteen and chuck it back into my bag before heading down the road on foot. 

Hours of walking brings me to an unusually orderly line of trees. My heart flutters at the sight. That must be it. It must be there, behind the trees. My tired body suddenly becomes light, a welcoming surge of energy jolts up my spine, and before I can stop myself, my legs are sprinting beneath me. My backpack shifts wildy side to side with each step. My tight jeans, doused in sweat, chafe against my dry skin, but I don’t stop.

Not until I see those fences. That tower. That awful, ugly, beige building that looks like heaven to me now. 

“Robert,” I mutter breathlessly. “Please be here.”

As I approach the chain link fence that surrounds the prison, I take note of the barbed wire up top. The only gate in the fence is locked with a thick chain. Unable to be patient, I drop my backpack on the grass and drop to my knees, plunging my bare hands into the hard topsoil, piercing through the wet grass, and lifting the earth up in chunks. Dirt flies past my face as the dig. Leaves crunch behind me. I freeze, craning my neck backward to see a walker exiting the woods, her decaying eyes locked on me. 

“Shit.”

I dig faster, my nails peeling away from my skin as dirt lodges beneath them. 

“Come on,” I curse myself. I dig and dig and dig until the fence pulls away from the earth. It’s just a small hole, barely enough to fit my body through. I glance behind me to gauge the walker’s distance from me only to see two more following behind her. I grab my backpack and catapult it over the fence then position my body feet first into the hole. As I wedge myself under the fence, I wince at the pain of the sharp metal dragging along my torso. 

“Hey!” A man yells. He stands near the building, hands gripping a gun on his waist. I look back, halfway through the hole, to see the walkers gaining on me. Maybe ten feet back.

“Fuck,” I say through an exhale, urging my body through the hole. Inch by inch, I make my way through until only my head is left outside of the fence. 

I hear footsteps approaching, hoping it’s the man coming to help and not the walkers coming to kill me. As I push my head through under the fence, gunshots ring above me, deafening me with a static ring in my ears. When I’m all the way through the fence, I sit up and look toward the woods. All three walkers lay dead not five feet from the fence.

“What the hell was that?” A woman yells near the prison. People exit the building and gather to watch. The man with the gun plucks me from the ground with a forcible grip. 

“Get inside, everybody,” the man yells to the group. Another man appears, his long hair covering his eyes, a crossbow in his hand.

“Get that cell ready, Daryl,” the man commands as he grips my hands tightly behind my back. I wince in pain but am too confused and shocked by the sudden encounter to care. “Maggie, Glenn. Take care of this fence. Should be more walkers comin’ now that I fired my gun.” A young man and woman nod and walk past us.

“What the hell,” I yell at the man, trying to turn to face him, but his firm grip keeps me locked in place. Before I can say anything else, a cold metal bar wraps around my wrists, locking tightly around them with a sharp  _ zip.  _ The handcuffs dig deep into my skin.

“Jesus, man, does it have to be so tight?” I ask, annoyed. I crane my neck to see the man. He’s just a bit taller than me and much older. His face is clean - unlike mine - and hidden under grey stubble. His dark hair cascades over his forehead in sweat-dampened strands. His piercing blue eyes bore into me with an air of seriousness. 

“I do the talking,” he warns in a deep voice, pulling me alongside him with a tight grip on my forearm. We walk up the grassy hill leading to the large, bland prison. It’s just as bleak and formless as I remember it. I can’t help but dart my eyes in every direction, desperately searching for that familiar face. It doesn’t take long before I realize it’s just this small group of strangers: the man guiding me, the man named Daryl a few steps ahead, an older woman with short spiky hair, and the young couple at the fence.

“Are there more of you? Is there a man named Robert here?” I ask without really intending to - the words just fall out of my mouth. Months and months of travel has led me here. Countless sleepless nights, hundreds of walkers, some run-ins with less-than-savory groups of humans. But I pushed through nonetheless. For him. For me. For my dad’s honor.

The blue-eyed man stops and squeezes my arm, his jaw clenched as tight as his grip on me. “I said  _ I do the talking.”  _ He eyes me up and down before stopping at my gaze and holds there just long enough for me to feel uncomfortable. I bite the inside of my lip, looking away, and he continues walking us to the prison. It’s not like me to back down, but I would be a fool to disobey at this point. I’m sorely outnumbered. 

Inside is dark besides the tiny streaks of sunlight that pool in from holes in the ceiling and cracks in the high windows. It stinks with a metallic sting that lingers in my throat. A few more people stand huddled in the corner of the large room, staring at me like a zoo animal: an old man leaning on a crutch, a blonde girl cuddling an infant, and a young kid with shaggy brown hair. No sign of Robert. My heart drops at the thought of him not being here, but I shouldn’t be surprised. I’ve always known my chances of finding him are extremely slim.

“Who’s this,” a voice asks. I turn to see the voice has come from the brown-haired kid in the corner. 

“Nobody,” the man gripping me answers. We approach one of the many barred cells that line the walls. Daryl unlocks one with a key and the man throws me inside. I stumble across the concrete and brace myself before slamming into the brick wall. Daryl pushes the sliding door shut and it locks with a loud bang. The blue-eyed man kneels and begins digging through my backpack.

“Hey, what the fuck,” I begin to protest. He looks up at me as his hands pull out piles of clothes. He tosses them onto the floor without care.

“Carl, Beth, why don’t you two head back into the commons for a moment,” the man says as he tosses my metal canteen onto the floor. The sound echoes through the large room. The kids shuffle out, peering behind them with curiosity as they leave.

I clench my jaw, trying to contain the rage building within me. The invasion of privacy of this man tossing all my belongings onto a dirty floor in front of a group of strangers spectating pisses me off. But I can’t do much about that now, staring down at him through a literal cage.

“I don’t have anything you want,” I yell, poking my face out through the thick steel bars. My face feels burning hot against the cold metal.

“Is that so?” He mocks as he pulls out my Glock pistol, twisting it around in the dim light. 

“There’s only one bullet in there,” I say, as though that makes his discovery of it any more innocent. The man removes the clip, eyes it, and nods. 

“My bullet now,” he says in a low tone. The old man with the crutch steps forward.

“Hey now, Rick, you can’t just take her belongings,” he says. Although his voice is slow and shaky it still holds an inexplicable power. “We don’t know her,” he adds.

“Exactly,” the man who I now know as Rick shouts, lifting his gaze to eye the old man. “We don’t know her. We don’t know what she wants or what she’s capable of.” The rest of the room tenses up at his sudden anger. 

I roll my eyes and sit on the floor, defeated. The old man retreats out of the room as he shakes his head. Rick continues his scouring of my backpack. He pulls out my journal and flips through the pages, skimming each one with a determined stare. I say nothing even though I want to shout at him for it. Those are my words, my thoughts. I swallow the lump in my throat when I remember some of the more embarrassing diary entries. Rick closes the book shut and throws it on the floor. Once the backpack is empty, my things strewn about like they’re worth nothing, Rick declares it safe. The rest of the group trickles out of the room, all heading toward the door opposite of my cell, where I assume the “commons” are located. When it’s just me, Rick, and Daryl left, Rick carelessly grabs my things and shoves them back into the bag. He nods at Daryl who opens my cell door just long enough for Rick to throw the backpack inside. After they lock my cell, they both begin to walk away.

“Hey,” I yell, shoving my shoulder into the bars to make them rattle. “Can’t you at least take these cuffs off?”

Rick stops and turns on his heels, his eyes like a snake’s zoning in on me, analyzing my fear. Daryl lingers by the door before Rick waves him away. 

  
“I got this,” he whispers to the man. “Tell Beth to start dinner.”

Daryl nods and exits, leaving me alone with the man who locked me in here. After only seeing a handful of living humans in the past eight months, I catch myself staring at him, at his features. His straight brows, his high cheekbones, his casual white shirt draped loosely over his body. His boots clank slowly against the cement, each step echoing in the silent room. I’m caught in a whirlwind of emotions. Should I be happy to be around the living? To finally be where I’ve been searching for this entire time? Or should I be angry, enraged, that this man has sorely misunderstood my purpose here, threw me into a prison cell, and tossed around my few precious belongings like they’re trash? 

“Turn around,” he demands as he lifts up a small key from his belt loop. I do as I’m told and place my cuffed hands at an opening in the bars. He grabs my wrist, inserts the key, and catches the cuffs that fall off of me. I sigh in relief and wince at the lingering pain from the tight metal. It takes a few pulses of my fingers for the pain to subside.

Rick begins to turn back toward the exit.

“Wait,” I say, desperately. He stops, turning on his heels. I reach behind to pull a photo from my back pocket and lift it to his face. “If you see a walker who looks like this,” I begin, my chest rising and falling with my shaky breath - the thought of Robert being dead knocks the air out of my lungs. I swallow and push past the fear. “If you see him, can you please use that one bullet and put him out of his misery?”

Rick looks at the photo, then at me. His eyes shift from distrust to pity. His once sharp features begin to relax. The tightness of his jaw is replaced with a gentle, barely visible frown. He offers only a nod before leaving. When the door slams shut behind him, all I’m left with is the echo, the setting sun, and my racing thoughts. 


	2. Common Ground

After an hour passes I begin to wonder how long I’ll be here alone. Will they send someone to check on me? To feed me? Are they allowed to speak to me as they wish, or is Rick - seemingly their leader - banishing me from the group completely? I’ve got all the time in the world to think as if my eight month trek wasn’t enough time. All I ever  _ do _ is think. Hell, sometimes I forget if I’m talking in my head or out loud like a madman.

But soon, after my mind settles and I begin to relax as best as I can in this concrete cage, I feel… an odd sense of peace. I can breathe. I can keep my head forward - no need to scan my surroundings for walkers. I don’t need to keep running. I don’t need to dig the map out of my bag and wonder if I’m lost. I’m here. I’m  _ safe. _ I can sleep without waking up to a walker clawing at me, or a group of deranged humans robbing me at gunpoint. I can  _ relax. _

So I do.

With nothing else to do, I barely drift off into sleep, my eyelids heavy and my mind shutting down, before I'm pulled back into reality as a door shuts across the room. I look up to see the young blonde girl called Beth holding a tray and walking cautiously toward me like a deer in headlights. I stand quickly, my mind racing with questions. 

"Beth," I say, and she looks behind her before nodding her head.

"I'm not supposed to talk to you," she whispers, pity in her bright eyes. She swallows a lump in her throat and sheepishly skids the tray under a slot in the door. "Nobody is."

I glance behind her and see the closed door. It's just us two.

"Nobody's here," I whisper, desperation holding my voice. 

She stands silent for a moment, shifting uncomfortably on her heels. She looks back again before shaking her head and staring me right in the eyes, a seriousness in them. "I'm sorry," she whispers and turns to walk away.

"Wait!" I call after her. She stops. "Should I be worried?"

Beth looks to her side, thinks for a moment, then shrugs again with that pitiful stare. 

When she leaves, I scarf down the food like it's running away from me, thankful for a large serving. Weeks and weeks of rationing cans of beans and fruit have done a number on me. When it's gone, I sit back in the corner and stare at the door again.

///

I wake up to a wooden chair slamming against the floor right in front of my cell. I jolt up with an initial shock, but catch my breath when I see it’s just Rick. He’s changed clothes, now wearing a brown button down shirt tucked into jeans. The room lacks the few puddles of sunlight it had before I fell asleep. I sit disoriented for a moment, wondering what the time is.

Rick twists the chair so the backrest faces my cell and straddles it, crossing his forearms along the curved wooden top. He exhales a long, drawn out sigh, and lifts his eyes to mine. Pursing his lips into a tight line, he watches as I approach the gate and stand a few feet away from the man, the thick metal bars interrupting our stares. 

"You got two choices," Rick begins. His eyes are unwavering, locked in on me as I lock in on him. I take a step closer and wrap my hands around the cold bars at face level. "You can make this easy and tell me everything, or," he pauses. "You can lie to me and I can put that one bullet to use."

I nearly scoff aloud at his intimidation strategy, wondering if this man has lost his mind. I bite back my banter and exhale a shaky breath, masking a laugh. 

"Are you forgetting the part earlier when I kept trying to talk to you? When I kept trying to explain why I'm here?"

Rick doesn’t blink. 

"Wasn't your time to explain. Now is."

"Fine," I sigh, shaking my head. I throw my palms up in defeat. "Fine, ask away."

"Where'd you come from?" He asks, wasting no time. His eyes are pressed thin in an examining squint. He cocks his head to the side, awaiting my answer.

"South Dakota."

"No," he shakes his head. His long hair glides across his forehead. "Not where you grew up, I mean where'd you come from just now. Where were you when all this started."

"South Dakota," I repeat, slowly, in a dramatic tone as though he's hard of hearing. He might be.

He shakes his head with a grimacing smirk, a low guttural laugh escaping his thin lips. He brings a hand to his mouth, running a finger along his bottom lip as he analyzes me. It’s the first time I’ve seen him move his face in any expression other than seriousness.

"Alright, South Dakota," he entertains the idea although it's obvious he still doesn't believe me, his palms up near his face. "Let me guess, you just hopped on a plane to Georgia?"

I can't contain the roll of my eyes. My jaw clenches at his unrelenting distrust. I take a moment to collect myself, but when my eyes meet his, the impatience comes flooding back.

"Yes, Rick," I spit, my hands throwing my arms up and letting them drop loudly at my side. "Exactly. I just hopped on a plane. Any other questions?"

He’s eerily still for a moment. A breath too long. I clench my jaw shut, pressing my teeth together until they hurt. I’m not afraid of the man; no. I’m afraid of being misunderstood. Of not having the chance to search for my brother here. Of having to leave never knowing his fate. Sure, Rick is intimidating. But after so many months alone, I find myself enjoying the discussion, even though it’s basically him just accusing me of lying.

“Well what, you want me to believe you made it here in one piece?” He shrugs his shoulders, egging me on. “You and who else? You didn’t travel alone from South Dakota.”

“I did,” is all I say. A low, long hiss. My lips form a grimace around the words as my eyes lock deeper into his. I feel all color drain from my face as the thought of my family pops up in my mind. Thinking of what happened to them… Of why I’ve been alone for so long…

"You sure you didn't come here from Woodbury?" He asks. "The Governor sent you here, thinkin' he's smart, and you got some task to carry out for 'em?"

"For who?" I ask, genuinely lost. 

He laughs and nods his head, throwing his palms up. "Alright. Okay. You wanna stick to this whole South Dakota story," he says mockingly. 

I just stand silent and bite my tongue. Suddenly I don't feel so safe here anymore. The man is clearly insane. I take a step back and wait for him to continue. I can't argue with crazy, even if I'm being honest.

“So you came all this way, apparently alone. Why did you do that?” He asks, his brows low, pinching between his eyes. He cocks his head. “Why come all the way here? For what?”   
  
I feel the butterflies gnawing at my throat again. I look down, reach behind for the photo, and show him once again. 

“My brother,” I say. Rick’s eyes soften. Something in him shifts - something in the room shifts. He bites at the inside of his lip and looks down with a nod. A nod of understanding. A nod of realization. I inhale a shaky breath before pocketing the photo. Shifting my weight onto one leg then the other, I begin to explain further. 

“He was here. When the world went to shit,” I say, looking around the large room, wondering if Robert once stood where I stand now. “He was serving a life sentence,” I admit. I look down at my hands clasped together, my thumbs fiddling half-mindedly. “I just had to know. If he’s here, or if he’s-” 

I can’t say the words.

“I know,” Rick whispers. I look up to see him staring at me, a longing sorrow in his eyes. “I know.”

  
  
  
  
  
  



	3. An Offer

I write in my journal, crouched over in the corner of my cell. The sun is at a perfect spot in the sky right now, casting bright rays into the high windows of the room. I use all the light I can get, from sunrise to sundown, just writing. Sometimes I read over my past journal entries and wonder how I made it here safely. It’s clear I had lost my mind a few times, mostly during the periods where I was completely alone for more than a few weeks. I read over the names of all the people I’ve met during my journey here. The helpful group in Chicago who happily shared food and let me stay for a few nights. The husband and wife in their cabin somewhere in Kentucky. And the man in Tennessee who helped me patch up a cut I gave myself when trying to cut rope. 

Today’s entry begins with a recount of the past two days. How I finally made it here. How I was so ready to find Robert. How Rick saved me from the walkers, only to throw me in this cell. How he thinks I’m an enemy. How I don’t mind being locked up because I’m safe, well fed, and thankful for the time to just sleep. I only wish he would let me search for Robert. Just once.

Since Rick spoke to me on my first day here, I've had no communication with anyone. They don't even come into my cell block. Beth has brought me food four times, each time setting it on the floor and walking away without a word. I wait eagerly for the breakfast I've been expecting all morning, but she still hasn't shown. I begin to wonder what's going on in that other room. The voices of the group woke me up hours ago, but I never catch a word they say. At one point I hear yelling but it seems to have died down for now.

As I write, I attempt to drown out the group’s muffled chatter next door. It suddenly turns into a disagreement. It becomes loud enough that I can’t ignore it. In fact, they are now shouting so loud that I can understand some of their conversation. I shut my journal and tuck it into my backpack.

“We can’t stay here,” I hear a man say. It sounds like Hershel.

“We can stay here,” Rick responds. I stand up and walk to the edge of my cell, getting as close to that door as possible. “We need to stand our ground. We’re not letting them drive us out of here, not after all the work we put into this place.”

“Rick, we don’t have the ammo to compete with them," another voice says.

"So we'll get some!" Rick snaps, his voice booming even through the closed door. The group falls silent. "We'll get some," he repeats, as though he's trying to convince himself.

"Where?" Hershel asks. "The Governor has already swept the area for weapons. Where are you gonna find any around here?"

My mind immediately flashes to those bags I came across just a few days ago. A car I had been driving since Tennessee finally ran out of gas, and with no idea how to siphon, I had to walk until I stumbled upon that rusty truck. As I walked, I ventured into the woods lining the road to sip some water from a nearby stream. I spotted some black duffle bags, about 10 or so, barely covered with dead leaves and twigs. Each bag contained guns, bullets, arrows, and things I’ve never even seen before. I considered grabbing something, but with absolutely zero knowledge of firearms, I decided to keep moving. That, and a stray walker had spotted me and began limping toward me, so I ran.

"I'll figure it out!" Rick yells, this time louder. Something falls, crashing against the floor. The group is silent again. The infant begins to cry, the wails echoing through the cell block. I watch the door, wondering what's going on, and flinch when the door swings open. I retract back to the corner of my cell as Rick walks in, slamming the door behind him. He keeps his head down, rubbing the back of his neck while he paces across the cement floor. He doesn't acknowledge me, and for a moment I think he's forgotten I'm here. I clear my throat and he lifts his head with wild eyes.

"I know where you can find guns. Ammo," I say.

Rick shakes his head and waves me off with a hand.

"Not interested," he mutters, his eyes fixed on anything but me.

"It sounds like you don't really have a choice," I respond. He clenches his jaw before looking back up at me. I wish he’d stop being stubborn and accept my help, because from what little information I just heard coming from that room, I don’t feel exactly safe here anymore. And Rick shouldn’t either.

The door opens again and this time it's Hershel who enters. Before the door shuts behind him, I catch a glimpse of the group in the other room - their faces somber and worried.

"Rick, you can't just walk off like that. Talk to me. Let's make a plan."

Rick says nothing, kicking his boots against the cement, his hands resting in his back pockets. 

"I can help," I chime in. Herschel looks over at me with intrigue.

"How so?"

"Hershel, don't buy into her crap," Rick interrupts before I can speak. He looks at me, then back at Hershel. "How do we know her intentions?"

"You could ask me," I say, unable to bite back the attitude. 

Herschel steps between us and I make my way to the door of my cell, leaning against the metal bars. 

"Now give me a second, Rick. I want to hear what she has to say." He gestures toward me. "Go on."

"A couple days before I made it here," I begin to explain, focusing on Herschel and ignoring an angry Rick who shakes his head, biting back a smirk while I speak. "I stumbled upon someones stockpile. Guns. Ammo. Duffle bags of it. Even some arrows."

Hershel's eyes light up at the discovery. He looks behind him at Rick, then back at me. 

"Well how far?"

I shrug, estimating the time in my head. "A day trip if you drive. It’s about 400 miles west."

“How do we get there?” Hershel asks.

I lift a finger, signaling for a moment to think while I reach into my backpack and grab the map. Unfolding it over the prison floor, I drag a finger along the road that led me here, and retrace my path. I falter for a moment when my finger reaches an intersection where three main roads meet and split into different directions. I squint my eyes and bring the map closer to my face, biting my lip while I rack my brain. Which road did I take? It was a gravel highway, no doubt, with abandoned vehicles scattered about. After that, a dirt road. 

“Is there a problem?” Rick asks as he steps closer to my cell, peering over to look at the map.

“No,” I shake my head, answering perhaps a little too quickly. “No, it’s just - It’s really hard to remember every direction I took. To be fair, I didn’t think I’d ever need to head back that way. I was just focused on making it to the prison.”

“How convenient,” Rick sighs and Hershel shoots him a look.

“I know where it is. I know what the roads look like. If I could see it, I would know the way. I just can’t recreate it on a map,” I defend myself.

“So you go with him,” Hershel says to me, ignoring Rick’s distrust. “Go with Rick and show him the way.”

“That’s a bad plan,” Rick begins to protest.

“It’s the only plan,” Hershel cuts him off. “Since you won’t abandon this prison, we need that ammo.”

“She said it’s 400 miles, Hershel.” Rick sighs, rubbing his temple. “If we run into any trouble, it could take days to get back.”

“So what? We have no other options.” Hershel leans on his crutch and looks intently at Rick who never lifts his gaze off the floor. He takes a long breath before he speaks. “Trust me, Rick. Trust her. You have to.”

Rick lifts his head and peers up at the man. I can see the muscles in his jaw tense and relax. He glances over at me, perhaps considering Hershel’s plan. Slowly, he nods his head.

“Great,” Hershel says. “You two go. I’ll have Maggie and Beth pack some food for you.” He turns to face me with a gentle smile and a glint in his eye. “Thank you, uh,” he furrows his brows.

“Reese,” I say. The old man nods with a smile.

“Thank you, Reese.”

“No problem,” I respond with a genuine smile. The man has such a kind demeanor. He reminds me of my grandfather. It’s hard not to frown a bit at the thought - the memories. 

Hershel pats Rick on the shoulder, whispers something to him, then walks off into the other room. When we’re alone, Rick looks over at me with an interesting mix of suspicion and faith. He stares at me for a while, his hands on his hips and weight shifted to one side of his body. I stare back, hearing movement in the other room. Finally, he reaches into his back pocket and lifts a ring of keys. He steps forward and inserts a key into the cell door. 

“Don’t fuck this up,” he warns, eyes boring into mine, as he swings my door open with a loud slam.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! This one is a little short, but I felt it was necessary to post before the next chapter (which will be pretty long if I don't decide to split it into 2) I had so much fun writing Rick and Reese in the next chapter. After a few edits, I'll post that. I really hope you enjoy and I will gladly take any suggestions!
> 
> Also, like I mentioned before, this is meant to be a You/Rick, but it's kind of a you/oc x Rick. 
> 
> And if you're curious of the timeline, the first chapter starts around the episode "I Ain't A Judas" shortly after the Governor attacks the prison for the first time. I'll try to keep true to the plot as much as possible, but I'll obviously have to tweak a few things here and there for Reese's story to fit within this universe.


	4. Tell Me Something

Rick says nothing the first hour of our drive and I’m okay with that. The car is cool against the humid summer air and I allow myself to relax into the plush seat. With the map laid out over my lap, I give Rick directions a few times and he complies without any response. We even pass by the truck I abandoned not far from the prison. It isn’t how I left it - one of the windows is smashed in, shattered glass strewn across the road. If it’s not from walkers, I wonder if it’s got something to do with “The Governor” Rick and Hershel were speaking about. 

“You’re gonna take a left just up ahead here, onto 51 West,” I say, glancing down at the map.

He says nothing but does as I instruct. The sign is ravaged with bullet holes and dried blood, but is still recognizable. Road 51 is a mess of torn up gravel, car wrecks, and dead walkers. When I passed through the first time, I almost didn’t make it. The potholes and glass shards almost blew a tire out, and the woods lining the road are full of walkers. Not to mention the vehicles torn in half, wrapped around trees, or smashed into each other into a jumble of unrecognizable metal. As we drive through, I peer into some of the wrecked vehicles. Through the shattered window of a Jeep, a walker still wearing their seat belt claws at me as we drive past. 

“Shit,” Rick curses beside me. I whip my neck to look at him, only to see his eyes straight forward on the road ahead. I follow his gaze to a crowd of walkers, at least a dozen in size, just up the road. My mouth goes dry and my heart sinks deep into my gut. They walk toward us in a line, blocking the road.

“Just, just drive through them,” I say, fear holding my voice. If I were alone, I’d already be out of the car and running through the woods. But Rick just keeps his foot on the gas, slowly creeping closer toward the crowd, a determined look in his eye. A few more walkers enter onto the road from behind the trees.

“And ruin the car? No,” he decides. His voice is a low growl, matching the animalistic glare he has on the walkers, like a wolf hunting prey. “We’d be stuck out here. We gotta just fight ‘em off. One by one.”

A lump forms in my throat. Looking out at the growing crowd of walkers makes my heart stop. Rick wastes no time, stopping the car and tossing me a knife from a holster on his belt. I catch it and everything moves too fast for me to think or to offer a better plan. So I get out of the car when he does and slowly step toward the walkers. The knife in my hand feels heavy and foreign. I twist the blade around in the sunlight for a moment, taking a deep breath and bracing myself for the walker who approaches me. Rick is already getting to work, piercing his blade through the skulls of three walkers who all fall at his feet. The walker in front of me stares me down with sunken eyes - an old man in a plaid shirt, the fabric torn and swaying in the wind. He limps toward me, dragging a bent foot behind him, and reaches his bloody hands forward.

“C’mon,” Rick yells, glancing over at me. I’m still frozen on my feet, stuck in one spot. He kills another one before checking on me again. “Well what the hell, don’t just stand there,” he says, plunging his knife into another skull. 

_ Do it, Reese. Just do it already,  _ I say to myself, gripping the knife tight, feeling the hilt covered in sweat and threatening to escape my hand. The old man takes another step, his hands almost reaching me, and I pierce my eyes shut as I lunge the knife toward his head. Only, it doesn’t pierce the walker. Instead, the walker grabs my arm and pulls me closer.

“Dammit, Reese,” Rick yells. I drown him out, unable to think. I just slash through the air with the knife, hoping to hit the walker, but I never do. The man opens his mouth with a growl and brings my arm closer to his teeth. I force my eyes shut, ready for the pain.

But it never comes. He never bites. 

I dare to lift an eye open and watch as Rick stands behind the walker, his knife deep in its skull. He pulls the knife out, blood sputtering everywhere. The old walker stumbles backward and falls face first on the gravel. Rick stands over the body, his chest falling and rising. Sweat and blood drips down his face, covering his brown shirt and jeans. He looks up at me while he catches his breath. I glance around at the walkers around us, all dead and scattered across the road.

“Get in the car,” he says in a low growl, using his knife to point. 

“Rick-” I begin to say, wanting to thank him, wanting to explain my actions - or lack thereof.

“Car. Now.”

/////

I tug at my arm where the old walker gripped me and wipe the dirt and blood off my skin. I keep my face hidden, staring out the window at the passing trees. I don’t want to face Rick. I don’t want to see the anger or disappointment on his face. Hell - all I want is to help. We aren’t driving for long when Rick decides to speak up, breaking the deafening silence around us. 

“What the hell was that about?” He asks, glancing over at me with high brows, his lips pressed tightly together. 

I meet his glare with a sigh, preparing to answer. I’ve never talked about it, not to anyone. 

“I just handle them differently than you do,” I explain, naively hoping that he’ll just accept this answer and move on.

He scoffs, a laugh of disbelief escaping his lips. Though he’s making a mockery of me, I still find his eyes light up as he smirks, the skin around his eyes crinkling. 

“And by differently, you mean not at all?”

I roll my eyes and bite the inside of my lip. I watch the tops of the tall pine trees blend together as we drive fast past them. 

“You wouldn’t understand,” I say, resting my head on the glass of my window. “I barely do myself.”

Rick furrows his brows together in confusion, waiting for me to continue. He drapes a hand over the steering wheel, the other out the window. The breeze catches my hair and swirls it across my vision.

“I just run from them,” I explain. “From everything, really. I always just run.”

I stare straight ahead but I can feel his eyes on me. I can see his head nod, his dark, sweat-dampened hair fluttering across his forehead. He opens his mouth as if he’s about to speak, but then closes it without a word. We drive in silence.

That is, until, the car begins to make noise. An awful one. It screeches, splitting my ears as I lift my hands to cover them. 

“What the hell,” Rick curses under his breath. He glances at the dashboard. 

“Is something caught underneath?” I ask.

Rick checks each mirror, his brows pinched together with concern. “No,” he shakes his head. Before I can say anything else, the car sputters, and comes to an abrupt stop. My body jolts forward, almost hitting the dash.

“Shit,” he says, slamming the wheel. 

“What is it?” 

He throws it in park and gets out to check under the hood. Smoke escapes from under it as Rick wafts it away to no avail. It grows thicker, flowing out of the car like a chimney. “Dammit!” He slams the hood shut and shakes his head.

“Come on,” he waves to me. “Goin’ on foot.”

I sit dumbfounded in the seat for a moment, wondering if he’s being serious. It all happens so fast. Once he starts walking away, I sigh and grab my backpack.

/////

“Did I-,” I begin to speak, kicking dust as I walk alongside Rick. I tug at my arm, trying to choose my words carefully as to not provoke the man. “Did I do something to offend you?”

He looks ahead. The sun shines harshly over his face. 

“You mean like digging a hole in the fence we’ve been trying to secure?”

I let out a quiet laugh, although I doubt he’s joking. “I am sorry about that, by the way. I didn’t know the prison was occupied.”

He says nothing and I find myself becoming nervous. I clasp my sweaty palms, rubbing them together half-mindedly. I inhale and struggle to ask again.

“It just feels like you really hate me,” I say, letting the words spill out of my mouth. He looks over at me, his brows pinched together in concern. “If I did, or said, anything to upset you - I’m sorry.”

He stops walking and so do I. The air between us seems to shift. I watch as Rick’s face softens and his eyes drop to the ground. I stand firmly and observe him, feeling a sense of relief to finally get this off my chest and to see him respond in any way other than anger.

“I don’t hate you,” he says. His voice is softer, kinder than I’m accustomed to. He looks at me with pity and lets an exasperated breath out. “I haven’t been too kind to you, I know that, and I’m sorry.”

I stand in a pleasant disbelief, shocked that he’s actually beginning to speak to me like I’m not an enemy. Rick rubs the back of his neck as he talks. He takes a step forward, continuing our trek, and I follow beside him. We walk slower now.

“See, you just showed up at the worst time.” Rick throws his hands up and lets them fall at his side. “The Governor attacked us just days before you arrived. I was certain you were some sort of spy or part of his plan.”

“Do you still think that?” I ask.

He looks down the road at the high sun with a contemplative expression before shaking his head. “Nah,” he says, and I feel a relief lift from my body. “I don’t know what kind of spy would lead the enemy to a stockpile of weapons.”

I laugh at the thought and so does he. I look over at him, his smile wider than I’ve ever seen, his eyes bright and playful. The sight makes me grin even more and I feel a rush of red take hold of my face. I shake my head until a thick curtain of hair hides my blush. I keep my head down as we continue our walk. Out of the corner of my eye I can see Rick glance at me now and then.

We travel for hours. Sometimes a sound will pique or interest and we will stop to examine. It’s usually just a squirrel or a bird. A few times, it’s a walker emerging from the woods and Rick will make a snarky comment about how he’ll take the kill. I nudge him after the third time, laughing at the tired joke. Sometimes he brings up stories about his son, Carl, or about his old job as an officer. I tell him a few things about my family and my adventures camping or hiking in the west. But for the most part, we walk in silence. I enjoy it. It feels natural to me now.

Rick checks each intact car that we pass - which are few and far between - to no avail. Nothing starts. Most are out of gas. And some have blown tires. So we have no choice but to walk. For hours. The sun shifts across the sky, dipping lower and lower with each passing minute, warning us of the impending nighttime. 

“Rick, it’s getting late,” I say with my eyes fixed on the sliver of sun that quickly descends behind the horizon. “Even if we find a good car, we won’t get to the stockpile tonight.”

“I know,” he says. He sounds defeated. I glance over to see him looking at the ground, his boots kicking up dust from the road. His face is considerably more red than it was this morning. “I reckon we’ve got no more than an hour left of light,” he says, squinting at the low sun. “Best bet is to veer off one of these side roads and hope for a house.”

I nod in agreement and we walk until we find just that - an offshoot dirt road. We turn down it and walk until we see a mailbox at the end of a grass-covered dirt driveway. It leads into a line of trees, winding down as far as the eye can see. With the sun now barely peeking above the horizon and no other mailboxes in sight, we decide to take a chance on this driveway, hoping a house stands at the end of it.

The driveway is at least a mile long. We pass through the line of trees, follow the winding curves, and are greeted with a small log cabin in a clearing. It’s dark by the time we arrive. I sigh in relief at the sight of the house and don’t notice I’m smiling until Rick points it out.

“Don’t be too excited yet,” he whispers. “We gotta make sure it’s secure.”

I wipe the smile off my face and nod once. A swell of fear bubbles in my chest. When I traveled alone, I preferred to camp in my tent. It was often hard to find a house free of walkers, or worse - humans.

We stand in front of the house for a minute, listening for any movement. It looks completely abandoned from the outside. No vehicles, no fresh tracks - nothing but overgrown bushes and some rusted lawn equipment. It appears to be a one level house, few windows, and a brick chimney erects at one side.

“I’ll go in, you just stay here,” he instructs and hands me that knife again. I accept it and nod, ignoring the fear of the growing dark surrounding us. 

Rick approaches the front door, a crooked wooden slab barely hanging on by the hinges, and reaches for his gun. I peer at him through the dark, squinting my eyes to see clearer. My ears tune into the woods surrounding us. Rick lifts the gun upward near his face and kicks the door open with a boot. He enters stealthily, darting his gaze across each direction. The door falls shut behind him so I can’t see anymore. The sound of is shutting awakens me to how alone and exposed I am out here. Luckily, it’s not long before Rick returns at the door, his head cocking toward the house, signaling for me to join.

“It’s clear,” he says, waving me forward. A sense of relief washes over me. I run into our little home from the night and shut the door behind me, shielding us from the dark of the night.


	5. Celebration

Rick sits on the dusty leather sofa with a sigh and peels off his boots. After massaging his feet, he kicks up his legs, laying across the cushions and forming a pillow with his interlocked hands. He looks up at the ceiling while I walk cautiously around the open room. It’s a tiny, one-bedroom home. The wood floors are littered with splinters, the brick walls are dampened from the humid summer air, and everything is coated in a thick layer of dust. Objects are strewn about - books, clothes, a guitar with 2 broken strings, and shattered glass framed family photos - as if someone left in a hurry. Or perhaps the walkers had let themselves in at one point. 

I continue to explore the little house as Rick fidgets with the fire pit chimney in the living room. I push a wooden door to reveal the bedroom. It’s smaller than my prison cell with one window at the opposite wall. A queen bed sits next to the door, the quilt and sheets lumped up in a messy pile. One of the pillows is popped open, feathers and fluff exploding from the seam. The only other piece of furniture is an old dresser. All the drawers are open and all the clothing is gone. I step out and shut the door quietly behind me. Next to the bedroom is a small bathroom. White tile, linoleum tub, and a broken mirror above the porcelain sink. The smell is awful, so I shut the door immediately. 

The only other room is the kitchen. No walls separate it from the living room. The broken fridge is, thankfully, empty. The cupboards are as well, save for some useless items like baking powder and seasonings. I push the items around, plastic and glass bottles of peppercorns and powders clanking together, until I reach the back of the cupboard. At the very far corner sits a glass bottle of some dark liquid. I grab it and twist it around, revealing a worn and peeling label.

Whiskey.

“Yes!” I say aloud, pulling the cork off the top and inhaling the musty aroma. It’s strong and tickles my brain. The best part about walking through America is the countless bottles of exotic wines and old liquors just waiting for someone to drink them. My father had quite the collection of bottles himself - which he took great pride in - that always taunted me as a teenager. On a few occasions, my friends and I would sneak downstairs when my parents were asleep and take a tiny sip from each bottle, just enough to buzz our brains without my father noticing a dent. When I walk toward the sofa to show Rick, I see him kneeling at the fireplace, lighting a torn book with a match. He’s already placed a few logs of wood in a formation. The logs catch fire slowly.

“Look what I found,” I say, twirling the glass bottle in the growing firelight. He turns on his heels, still crouched closed to the ground. He squints his eyes at it. After a moment of realization, he scoffs and shakes his head, standing to his feet. 

“You even old enough for that?” He asks, rummaging through his pack at the edge of the sofa. He pulls out a can of soup.

“Not exactly…” I say, rolling my eyes. “But, in my family, it’s a tradition to get shitfaced on your eighteenth birthday. Which, for me, was the day you threw me into that prison cell.”

Rick stops, letting his pack fall flat, and offers me a sympathetic gaze. I shift my weight to one side and lean against the wall, watching him. He shakes his head with a sigh. I feel my brows pinch together as I try and read his expression. Guilt? Remorse? It doesn’t look right on him.

“I’m sorry,” he sighs. He rubs the back of his neck with his head down, but his eyes peer up at me through his lashes. I cock my head as I watch him. “I didn’t know it was your birthday. I didn’t know if I could trust you. I didn’t know anything.” The firelight grows behind him. “Hell, I must’ve made it the worst birthday yet.”

My face softens at his words and I can’t help but laugh. Rick looks up at me with confusion. His sincerity and concern sends a heat in my chest.

“It’s not a big deal,” I say, shaking my head. The smile on my face won’t leave. “I forgive you. Besides, you can make it up to me by making tonight my real birthday,” I propose, shaking the bottle above my head. The dark liquid sloshes against the glass, casting dancing shadows through the firelight across the walls. “Before the world went to shit, my girlfriends had planned a camping trip for me with lots and lots of whiskey,” I explain. The memory makes me smile, but the sadness that accompanies it sits heavy in my heart. “Seems like, even though they’re gone, it’s still panning out. Like, I don’t know,” I shake my head and stare at a water stain on the ceiling. My voice trails off. “A sign from above, or whatever.”

Rick’s expression shifts from guilt to playful indecision. He scoffs at the idea and runs a hand through his hair. 

“I don’t know if I can fill in as said ‘girlfriends,’” he laughs, and I do too. It’s a nice back-to-reality moment from mourning my friends just seconds ago. I decide to become present, to just enjoy this moment in front of me. Because I know first hand how quickly the present can be swept away from me. “But I can at least keep you company.”

“You won’t drink?” I ask, a fake frown on my face.

“Nah, shouldn’t,” he answers, shaking his head. “We’ve got a busy day tomorrow. Didn’t plan on losing the car.”

“Just one?” I ask once more, shaking the bottle again.

Rick flutters between choices, his lips pursed together in a decisive grin, a firm hand rubbing along his jaw. Finally, he lets out a sigh of defeat and rolls his eyes to meet mine. 

“I guess,” he sighs and rubs his forehead with a hand. “One,” he reiterates with mock stern, signalling the number with his finger in the air.

“Yes!” I jump, letting the smile on my face grow until my cheeks hurt. A flutter of genuine happiness floats through me as I waste no time searching for some glasses to drink from. In an odd way, this has been the most fun I’ve had since the start of the apocalypse. I suppose, however, that after being isolated for so long, anything is fun. 

/////

“Cheers,” I say as we clink our glasses together. Well, glasses is a longshot. Rick drinks out of the soup can we opened and are cooking over the fire while I drink out of the metal canteen from my backpack. The first sip is rough on the tongue, but numbingly happy to the brain. I smile as I pull the canteen away from my lips, cringing at the strong flavor. Rick has a laugh at my reaction.

“It’s smooth,” he says, twirling the tin can in his hands that nearly wrap all the way around it. “I can tell you’ve never drank.”

“Pssh…” I roll my eyes playfully. “I grew up in the middle of nowhere,” I begin to explain, plopping down on the couch beside Rick. I watch the flames of the fire reaching up to touch the bottom of the soup pan. The small room begins to warm up with the delicious scent of tomato stew. “There’s nothing to do but drink, smoke, and set things on fire.”

Rick laughs quietly beside me. I look over at him to see his gaze on the fire, the flames fluttering across his eyes and lighting up his smile. “Yeah, I know all about that…” He draws, looking longingly at the flames as if to replay a fond memory.

“You from here?” I ask and he nods.

“King County. Not far from here. I was the Sheriff, as you know.”

My jaw drops with an uncontrollable laugh. 

“No, I did not know. You said officer.” I say with amusement. He clenches his jaw with a roll of his eyes. “The Sheriff. Drinking with a stranger who happens to not be 21.”

“Yeah, yeah,” he waves me off with a hand and takes another sip from his can. We both laugh - mine much louder than his. “The world has changed a bit since then.”

“I guess so,” I smile and finish my canteen.

/////

We talk and drink and laugh over the warm soup we’ve made. There’s nothing better than a hot meal, especially when it’s enjoyed inside a safe house with good company. I’ve had too many long, cold nights in a tent eating cold beans out of a cold can. It becomes difficult to pinpoint why I feel so happy. The warm meal or the whiskey. After a few outbursts of laughter at jokes that really aren’t that funny, I conclude it’s the whiskey - and I take another drink. When we finish eating, I place our dishes in a pile and take a seat on the hard floor near the fire, enjoying the warmth on my back.

“So tell me more about that,” Rick says, his voice shifting with intrigue. He absentmindedly twirls the whiskey in his glass as he looks over at me. The floor beneath me feels uneasy and the walls almost seem to spin, but focusing on Rick relaxed and stable on the couch keeps me grounded. I lift the glass to my lips as he does, but stop myself, remembering I’m probably going a little overboard. I set my canteen down between my crossed legs and twirl the lid off and on. “About your little journey here. How long did you walk?” He pinches his brows together with intrigue and takes another small sip. I watch him for a moment while I ponder an answer, captivated by his seemingly natural charm. I wonder if he knows this about himself, or if it’s just me or the whiskey in my veins. I smile and shake it off, inhaling a shaky breath.

“Well,” I sigh. “Distance? A couple thousand. Time? Months. Would have been quicker had I not stopped a few times. I had some injuries I needed to heal. And it was nice to stay with some of the groups I met for a week or so - they had food, water, shelter.”

“And humans.”

“Yeah,” I shrug and make a sour face. “That’s what kept me moving actually. The politics, the drama, the disagreements… It was exhausting. When you’re all alone, there’s really no trouble at all.”

“But you got lonely, didn’t you?” He asks, but then must notice the disagreement on my face. “Sometimes?” He adds. Rick finishes his cup and pours himself another. 

“Rarely,” I respond. Seeing him pour another makes me absentmindedly have another swig. It burns my throat going down but I push past the discomfort. “When I do get lonely, it’s the people who are already dead who I miss. I don’t really have anyone else to care about. Which is why I came here.”

“Your brother,” he says, nodding as he rubs his jaw. An emptiness takes hold in his glassy eyes. He knows how it feels to lose people - we all do now. “I’ll help you look for him,” he says. I look up at him, overcome with a sense of gratitude and sadness. Just the gesture means so much to me. Rick takes a long inhale before sighing, the heaviness of the conversation evident in his somber voice. “I already killed all the walkers in the prison. Most of ‘em had jumpsuits on. A lot of them are too decayed to make out, but they’ve got nametags.”

I nod. It’s all I can do. 

“But hey,” Rick adds, shifting his posture and broadening his shoulders. “Maybe he got out. Maybe he’s out there somewhere surviving.”

I shake my head and laugh. It’s not a fun laugh but it sure comes out that way - probably because I’ve told myself the same thing over and over, forcing myself to believe it but I really don’t. I reach across the floor and grab the whiskey bottle near Rick’s leg and take a long pull from it before slamming it down on the floor. 

“He’s dead, Rick.” I lean my back on the brick wall, letting the hot fire get uncomfortably close to my skin. “I just need to see him.”


	6. Happy

“What was that you said earlier? Something about just one glass?” I tease, standing in the corner of the room near the warm fire, fishing through my backpack for a change of clothes. The fire is nice, but the cold air outside begins to creep in through the cracks in the doors and windows, sending an unpleasant chill across my skin. I pull out a pair of thick black sweatpants and a deep green woolen sweater. I hear Rick let out a small laugh at my joke. He sits in the same spot on the couch, slouched over a bit, a finger lazily running across his parted lips. I note his foot tapping against the hardwood.

“It’s good whiskey,” he says, and finishes another glass. “It’s gonna be a rough day tomorrow.”

“Drink some water,” I say, offering him a half-full plastic bottle from my backpack with an outstretched hand. He hesitates before taking it with an appreciative nod. “I’m going to change clothes. Save some whiskey for me.”

“No promises,” he shouts back at me as I walk to the bedroom. I hear liquid pouring into his tin behind me and I roll my eyes to myself. I don’t know that I’m smiling until I close the bedroom door and catch a glimpse of myself in the cracked mirror. I pause and take a step closer.

My hair is frizzy and long, bleached here and there by the sun. My normally pale skin is mostly deep golden except for the few sunburnt red spots like my nose and shoulders. My lips are cracked and dry. And I’m at least ten pounds lighter than I’d like to be. But my eyes are bright, awake, and curious. And my dry lips can’t keep my smile from growing. I look different - but I look happy.

And after the months of hell I’ve suffered, I deserve to be happy. At least for tonight. 

I peel the sweat-damped, dirt-soaked clothes off my body and throw them in a pile on the floor. What I wouldn’t do for a shower right now… I sigh and quickly toss the sweater over my shoulders, letting it fall heavy over my body. Immediately I’m greeted by the warmth of the wool, a protective layer from the chilly night air. I slip on the sweatpants and throw my hair into a bun before rejoining Rick in the living room.

He’s holding a book, flipping through the pages too quickly to read. I assume it’s one from the piles of crap all over the floor. I’m pleased to see a good amount of liquor left in the bottle. I pluck it from the table and take a pull, wincing at the bitter taste. 

“Easy there,” Rick says, his eyes glued to the book. He flips another page. 

“Why? You don’t want me to get sick?” I ask and set the bottle back on the table in front of him.

“No, so you leave some for me,” he jokes, and picks up the bottle to take a swig. I roll my eyes with a laugh and sit next to him, crossing my legs, feeling cozy in my sweater.

“What’s that you’ve got?” I ask, peering over at the book. 

“Oh, just uh-,” he flips the book closed to show me the cover. “Some guide to edible plants in the area.” He shrugs and hands it to me. “Just something to look at. Might be useful.”

I skim through the pages. The paper is old - yellow, stained, and frail. I lift the book to my nose and inhale. Memories of visiting my grandparents as a child come flooding back to me. Rick laughs beside me.

“What?” I ask.

“I imagine a dusty book from the floor of an abandoned house can’t smell too good,” he says. He rests a hand on his knee, the other behind me on the back of the couch. 

“Well, you imagine wrong. It’s actually the best smell in the world. See?” I lift the open book to his nose and he laughs as he entertains my idea. He shrugs with lifted brows.

“Alright - not bad.”

“It reminds me of my grandma. We only got to visit her on rare occasions - she lived pretty far from us.” I flip the pages absentmindedly like a deck of playing cards. The wind flutters in my loose hairs. “She had a crazy book collection. But they were all extremely old. Like, books from when she was a kid.” I smile down at my lap, remembering her kind smile. 

“Well,” Rick says, cocking his head toward the book. “Keep it.”

I smile over at him and nod. I toss the book at my backpack and reach for the bottle. We spend the night passing the whiskey back and forth. I ask him more about Carl and he asks me more about - well, everything. We pass out on the couch after joking about how hard the morning will be.

/////

It isn’t too bad at all. In fact, I wake up with ease, and with an excitement for the day ahead. I can’t exactly say the same for Rick - who rubs his head a lot and drinks most of our water supply before we even leave the house. But after a few miles of walking, he seems mostly okay.

“Keep your eyes peeled for a car. Might be some parked off these back roads, too,” Rick says. We’ve been walking for a couple hours with no luck. The one car we do find is broken beyond repair. I don’t ask too much about it because I know nothing about cars and Rick seems to become increasingly annoyed the further we walk. But even so, everytime I look over at him I smile like an idiot. Soon, he starts to take notice. He furrows his brows over at me.

“You still drunk?” He jokes. I roll my eyes.

“I don’t know, I just-,” I pause, struggling with the words, though my vibrant smile refuses to falter. “I just felt so happy last night. The happiest I’ve been since this all started.” I peer up at the high sun, feeling a wave of pure energy course through my skin, down my spine, in my heart. “It felt like everything was normal again.”

“That’s just the whiskey talkin’,” Rick says, shoving his hands in his pockets as we walk.

“No,” I shake my head as I turn to face him. “No, I don’t think it was.”

Rick stops walking midstep, his face shifting from playfulness to a serious curiosity. His eyes squint against the sun as he searches my gaze, his face stuck in between two expressions. Before I can say anything else, the bushes rustle behind me. I turn on my heels.

Rick already has his knife out and ready. He walks past me with urgency and aims the blade through the skull of a completely rotten walker. I wince at the sight - and the smell - and take a few steps back. He pulls his knife out, soaked and dripping with dark blood, and pushes the now limp body to the ground where it thuds and kicks up dust. 

“Rick, look” I say, my mouth agape. I point my finger down the road, toward where we’re heading. He takes a few steps forward and squints against the sun. His white shirt is already completely damp with sweat - and now blood. 

“Finally,” he sighs, and waves me to join him. We run ahead until my lungs hurt and my legs nearly give out. But there it is. 

A car. Black, minimal rust, and only a few splatters of dried blood. Rick slaps the hood, a thick layer of dust and dirt sticking to his hand. “C’mon,” he mutters to himself. After dragging our feet in the hot sun all morning, I want nothing more than a place to sit, shielded from the heat and rays. And with the impending battle back at the prison, the sooner we get home, the better. But we’ve already tried countless cars to no avail. I step back with my arms crossed, almost waiting for it to not start. 

But Rick climbs in, twists the key, and it hums to life. 

“Alright,” he shouts. “Hop in. Show me to those guns.”


	7. Just Like the Rest of Them

The backseat brims with black bags -- at least ten of them. They shuffle and clank with each bump or curve in the road. Rick hasn’t stopped beaming since he laid eyes on the stash, tucked off into a ditch just where I said it would be. I hoped he would acknowledge that I told the truth all along, but he seemed preoccupied with the fact that they’d “finally beat Woodbury.” It seemed as if all his problems were solved in that moment.

I don’t press him on it, even though my curiosity eats away at me. Instead, I enjoy the sort of weightlessness Rick now embodies. His smile is genuine and his body relaxed as he drapes one hand across the steering wheel. I know how humans are, even during a time like this -- they need conflict, they find it, they hurry for a solution, and start all over again. I assume Rick’s group is no different. Each person I’ve met along my travels had some sort of war going on with others; usually theft or a battle for resources. I still don’t know what Rick’s group is fighting for, but it doesn’t matter because he’s happy now.

I left my clothes back at the little house and swapped them out for some of the clean ones from the dresser. Whoever lived there was certainly an older lady, noted by the floral patterns on nearly every shirt, and I actually like it. I stashed some shirts and pants in my backpack and threw on this loose-fitting white tank top with lace trimmings. I managed to find some flared jeans that fit me well enough and a pair of socks that was free of holes. I catch Rick glancing at me as I flip through the book he found.

“Anything interesting?” He asks, squinting at the bright sun.

“Yeah, actually,” I say, pointing to a faded sketch of a flower. “Whoever owned this actually used it and jotted some notes here and there.”

“Well, may they rest in peace,” Rick says under his breath. I know he means it halfheartedly. I mean, death is all around us. But still, my heart sinks at the thought.

I flip to the book closed and peel back the cover. The name “Donna” is written in neat cursive at the top corner, dated all the way back to 1968. I let my fingers trace the name, as if it will bring me closer to this woman in some sort of spiritual way. Part of me morbidly wishes Donna died a long time ago, way before any of this plagued the world. Maybe it’s her shirt I’m wearing right now. I feel like a thief. I close the book and zip it into my backpack.

As we inch closer to the prison, Rick finally gives me the answers to what I’ve been wondering all along.

“You’ve been helpful,” he starts, “if not stressful at the beginning.”

I scoff. “Unnecessary, but continue.”

Rick smirks before taking a deep breath. “So, I’ll consider letting you stay at the prison for a bit. Uncaged,” he adds.

“I know,” I say, with a confident, mocking tone. I raise my brows and cross my arms. “The minute you laid eyes on those guns, I think you were ready to offer me anything I wanted.”

Rick shakes his head with a playful grin. “You have no idea how badly we needed this.”

I decide now is as good a moment as ever to finally inquire more. My tone falls serious as I turn my head to face him. “So, what exactly do you need it for?”

I watch as Rick’s smile drops. He rubs his shoulder and keeps his eyes forward. “We’ve got people comin’ to fight us. They want our prison. That’s why you can stay with us a couple days, maybe a week or two - I don’t know when they’re planning to show - but then you gotta move on. It won’t be safe there, not when they start comin’.”

“What?” My brows pinch together. My whole body stiffens as I turn to face him. The thought of having to leave usually wouldn't phase me, but I need to find my brother. Rick knows that. “Well, I’m not leaving until I find Robert.” My voice is more stern than I intend, but I mean it just the same.

Rick shakes his head and gazes out his window. “I told you. I’ll help you look today. If he’s not here, he’s not here. You gotta move on before Woodbury comes. You said yourself, you can’t shoot a gun, and it’s just best you stay out of it. I don’t want you to get hurt.”

“That’s fine, I’ll leave, but not without Robert.”

“We’ll look today.”

“Fine,” I say, and cross my arms, falling back into my seat. I crane my neck as far as I can, watching the trees blur together as we drive.

If I were alone, I’d cry out of frustration. Doesn’t Rick know how long it took me to get here? How much I’ve suffered just for the chance to see my brother? What if it takes longer than today to find Robert. There could be places of the prison Rick hasn’t even seen yet - how can he be so sure? If Woodbury shows up today, am I just out of luck? I feel sick thinking about it. As if throwing me into a jail cell wasn’t enough. As if ten bags of guns and ammo wasn’t enough. 

This group is just like the rest of them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys, I'm finally back. Just fell into a rut is all. I do fully intend to keep this story and Under Blodreina alive and well. I have a lot of plot left for both. This is just a short little update to reintroduce myself to the story (it's been a long time lol) Hope you enjoy. Until next update


	8. Home for Now

Carl opens the gate and secures it behind us. The drive has been silent since I learned Rick is going to kick me out as soon as trouble arrives. I don’t blame him, and honestly, I don’t care. I’m only here for one thing. So instead of moping around about it, I’ve already got a smile plastered on my face to match the smiles of the group. They stand perched around the outside of the prison, just like when I first arrived here. They must see the bags in the back, because they all beam with joy, laughing and high-fiving at our successful mission. Carl runs up the driveway behind us.

“No way,” says Beth as we exit the car and begin unloading the back. “We all thought it was too good to be true.”

“I didn’t,” Herschel says with a gleam in his eye. He winks at me and I smile back. “You guys must be starving. There’s lunch ready inside.”

The prison feels lighter than it did before I left. I think it’s the group. They don’t look at me with anger or with pity anymore. They look at me like I’m part of them now. 

“Any word on Woodbury?” Rick asks the lingering group as we eat our lunch: pasta and canned fruit.

“Not directly,” Glenn says. “But Merle says they’re definitely loading up for something big. He heard the Governor say they still need more training. Maybe a couple weeks by the sound of it, but who knows with that guy.” It’s interesting to see them all, now knowing more of their stories. How they got here, who they were before the end of the world. Rick told me a bit about each of them. Glenn and Maggie make me smile. They seem perfect for each other.

“We’ll go through our updated inventory and start assigning guns today,” Rick says.

“Or tomorrow,” Glenn suggests. He cocks his head toward the empty bins in the kitchen area. “Me and Maggie are heading out again. We need food.”

Rick nods, though irritated. “Fine. Make it quick.”

“Always do,” Glenn says and pats Rick on the shoulder and heads toward the door with Maggie. She offers me a smile nod as if to say  _ thank you  _ as they pass.

When nobody is around us, I put a gentle hand on Rick’s wrist. “Hey, relax,” I say. He clenches his jaw.

“I’ll relax when it’s over,” he says, eyeing the wall. I don’t know if it’s out of frustration or out of an inability for Rick to sit longer than two minutes, but he pushes his tray away and stands before I can protest. “Let’s go find your brother.”

///

“Are you sure I don’t need a weapon or anything?” I say as we head down the pitch black stairs. The eerie sight fills me with anxiety. I don’t like surprises and I certainly don’t like the looks of this basement. There’s too many corners, too many doors, too many places for a walker to jump out. Rick holds a flashlight to illuminate our way. As we reach the bottom steps, though, the walls are splattered with blood. The smell alone could knock someone out. 

“There’s nothing to kill. They’re all dead,” Rick says. 

“Are you sure?” I ask for the third time. Rick stops and I bump into him. 

He turns to face me, his face barely visible in the dim glow of the flashlight. His towering over me makes apparent our height difference. I take a step back. “I’m sure,” he says.

I throw my hands up. “Okay, okay. I believe you.” We continue down the dark corridors.

The first stretch of hallway is empty. There are no sounds but our hollow footsteps and echoing drips of what I hope is just a leaky pipe in the distance. Rick casts his flashlights along the perimeter. No walkers, just signs of them. Blood - and lots of it.

“You know, you should get out more,” I say, mostly out of boredom, but it’s true nonetheless. Sometimes I forget I’m not alone anymore, and that there are actual people who can hear everything I blurt out. After months of speaking to myself, I forget to filter my thoughts. “You seemed a lot happier the other night when were were away from here.” 

Rick's laugh echoes in the hallway. “Yeah, well whiskey sure takes the edge off.”  
I shake my head, though he can’t see me. “No, it wasn’t just that. You benefit from getting away from this place, I think. You have so much to worry about here since you’re in charge.”

“I’m not in charge,” he says, shaking his head.

“Sure seems like it,” I say, and he says nothing. I sigh and continue. “Anyway, that’s not the point. I’m just saying all this stress isn’t doing you any favors.” I step in a puddle of blood and scrape the bottom of my shoe clean on the cement. “I know we just met, but you’re actually quite nice to be around when you aren’t so uptight.”

Rick stops. “I know. You’re right. And again, I’m sorry for being short with you. It’s not personal. I’m like that with everyone these days.” He stops when we reach a dead walker at our feet. He kicks it so it falls onto its back and we can read the nametag that’s sewn to the tattered jumpsuit.  _ Alex.  _ Not our guy. We keep walking until another body lies ahead.  _ Ben.  _ I clench my jaw, already getting frustrated at the fear that creeps up within me:  _ What if he’s not here?  _ I silence my mind and push forward with Rick. The hall comes to an end and we turn into another room.

His flashlight reveals a destroyed room - broken desks, cracked lights hanging from the ceiling, and bodies strewn about the cement floor. We get to work peeling them off the floor, one by one, and searching for the name tag each time. Some of them are barely visible, either soaked in dark blood or torn to bits. After a while, about fifteen corpses lay neatly across one of the walls. They are a lot heavier than they seem, even after being dead for so long. None of them are Robert, yet. I give myself a break and sit on one of the intact desks. Sweat drips down my face, but I don’t want to wipe it away with my bloody hands. The white lace shirt I took from the little house is now etched with stains. I grimace at it.

“We’ve got detergent upstairs. It’ll wash right out,” Rick says, wiping his brow.

“When I find Robert, there’ll be no need. I’ll leave right away.”

Rick stops and stares over at me. And though I can barely see his face in the soft light, I can see his confusion.

“Reese, he’s not here. That’s the last walker,” Rick says, pointing to the one he just propped up.

“What?” I say, though I don’t even realize it. My heart sinks as I stand up and check the name tag. It’s not him. None of them are. My world starts to spin as I turn around, trying to find Rick in the dark. “No, there’s gotta be more. That was barely any.”

“I told you, a lot of them wandered out past the fence. These are the only ones here,” Rick explains, using his hands to talk. I clench my jaw and peer up at him. He must sense the pain in my expression, because he softens his. He presses his lips into a straight line, the beginnings of a frown, and steps close to me. He places a comforting hand on my arm and kneels to match my height. “Besides, shouldn’t you be happy he’s not here? That means there’s a chance he’s out there somewhere -  _ alive _ .”

“No, it means he’s dead out there, wandering forever,” I spill out, hiding my face. “And I’ll never find him.”

  
  
  


///

  
  


“I think I’m allowed to talk with you now,” a small voice says behind me. I set my journal down and peer behind. Beth stands at the doorway, closing the cell door behind her. She’s small and meek but possesses a charming charisma. The stark room softens as she enters. I smile up at the girl and scoot over on the metal cot so she can sit. “I’m sorry I couldn’t do more to help you. I tried to give you bigger portions of food without them noticing. I hope you noticed.”

“I did,” I smile. “Thank you so much. You know, it’s really hard to come across kind people. Everyone is so quick to persecute.”

“Yeah, sorry about Rick. He’s…” Beth’s voice trails off as she searches for the right words. She clears her throat and lowers her volume. “Ever since his wife died, he’s been a bit… unpredictable.”

“His wife?” I ask, feeling my brows pinch together. She nods.

“It happened a few weeks ago. During birth. Maggie was there. So was Carl,” Beth says, shaking her head at the memory. A pang of unimaginable sadness creeps over me. No wonder Rick has been so hot and cold. I feel sorry for prodding at him now, for telling him to lighten up. I had no idea.

“I thought that baby was yours,” I say, trying to get out of my own head. 

“Oh no.” Beth shakes her head. “But it does feel like I’m raising her sometimes. I don’t mind, really. Sorry I’m talkin’ your ear off. We don’t get many visitors. A group just came in a few days before you, actually, but Rick already scared them off. And a woman, Michonne. She’s still around, but she keeps to herself. Rick says she’ll have to leave as soon as she’s healthy.”

“He said the same to me. Well - not as soon as I’m healthy, but as soon as I find what I’m looking for. And I didn’t find it,” I say, the bitterness in my voice apparent. I clear my throat. “I’m actually just packing up now. If I leave soon, I’ll find a decent spot to sleep before the sun sets.”

“What?” She cocks her head. I continue folding a shirt and cramming it into my already-full backpack. I glance up and see an immense fear on her face. I stop packing and watch her. “You really shouldn’t be out there by yourself. Not with Woodbury hanging around. They could see you.”

“And?” I ask, genuinely curious. I’ve had enough of dangerous groups and I’m smart enough to know to stay away.

“And they’ll take you, like they took Maggie and Glenn. And Andrea. And Michonne,” she whispers, cocking her head behind us where a woman sits, adjusting her bandages. I assume she’s Michonne. I return my attention to Beth and nod my head. “I certainly wouldn’t want to come across the Governor, or any of them, on my own.”

I shudder at her words, at the possibilities they hold. I’ve only been here a few days, but I’ve already grown to feel somewhat safe within these hard prison walls. Do I really want to subject myself to the dangers past the fence so soon? I glance around at my little room. Sure, it was once my prison cell, keeping me trapped in here, but now it’s quite cozy. Familiar. It feels nice to not be on the road for a change.

“Well, Rick did say I could stay until things get worse,” I reason, setting my backpack on the ground. Beth looks relieved.

“Good. Rick would be crazy to let you out there at a time like this. He should know better.” She stands up from the bed and takes a couple backward steps toward the door. “If you need anything, let me know. I’ve even got some clothes that probably fit you.”

Before I can thank her, she’s already out the door. She stops by Michonne, seemingly asking her a question, but the woman just looks at her, then back at her hands. Beth sheepishly walks off. I smile to myself, grateful for her kindness. After so many run-ins with people over the months, she is truly good, and it’s easy to see. I haven’t spent enough time with any of the rest to make a similar judgement, though her father has been hospitable and trusting as well. Carl only looks at me like I’m a prisoner, which is to be expected according to Rick - he says his son is taking more responsibility around here. I laughed when he first said it, thinking it was a joke. I mean, he’s only a kid. But he’s a kid who walks around with a gun like he owns the place and I’m not going to argue with it. Maggie and Glenn have been gone or busy most of the time. Same with Daryl, but I’m not too fond of him after our few encounters. And Rick is, well… Rick. His behaviour makes so much sense now. 

As I unpack my belongings, tucking them neatly under my bed, my mind wanders to that night in the little house. How blissful everything was. How happy Rick seemed. I feel awful for suggesting he’s just stressed out and needs to relax… when in reality, he’s mourning a recent loss. I ponder apologizing to him, but end up deciding it’s best I just back off. This is his place and I’m just in it for a while. Beth has convinced me to stay until it’s safe, but I’m leaving as soon as I can. I want to see what’s around here. If Robert did escape - as a walker - he could be roaming around these woods. Maybe he’s in that horde I saw in the distance. He can’t be far from here unless he’s alive. I hit myself on the forehead for even thinking that thought.  _ He’s not alive, he’s not alive, he’s not- _

“Are you okay?” I hear Rick ask behind me. I drop my hand and twist on my heels. He stands in the doorway with a chain and a lock. I pinch my brows at the sight.

“Yeah,” I say, shaking my head. “Just a headache. What are you-” I begin to ask and he cuts me off with a laugh.

“This,” he lifts the chains. “Nothing bad. I’m just chaining the door open so you know we aren’t keeping you here.”

I let out a sigh of relief and watch him loop the chain through the metal links of the door. He locks the chain at the end and tosses me the key. He demonstrates how the chain blocks the lock, so nobody could trap me in here even if they tried. I look down at the key in my palm and smile.

“Thanks, Rick, but you really didn’t need to-”

“Yes I did. We don’t all get along in here,” he says, his voice low, just above a whisper. I assume he means him and the rest of the group. He doesn’t need to explain that, though, because the tension among the group has been palpable since the moment I showed up. “And I don’t want someone to decide you’re a prisoner all-of-a-sudden. I made a promise to you and I intend to keep it.”

I smile at the man and pocket the key. Rick glances behind as if to see who’s around. Nobody is - even Michonne has slipped away elsewhere. He lets himself into the room.

“Listen,” he says, keeping his voice low. “I’m really sorry about your brother. I’d hoped you’d be able to find some closure here, especially with how far you’ve traveled.”

I keep my head down and turn my back to him, pretending to mess with something in my backpack. My sun bleached hair cascades over my shoulders creating a curtain between us. I don’t mean to hide myself. I’m just too overcome with fear and worry and failure to form any coherent thought. Thankfully, he keeps speaking so I don’t have to. His voice is closer now. 

“Maybe, when all this blows over with Woodbury,” he says, his deep voice trailing off as he searches for the words to say. “Maybe we’ll find ourselves back at that little house for a night.” I freeze. My hands clutch a pair of jeans I’d been pretending to fold. Something shifts in the air, the same way it did my first night here. I want to turn and face him, but my feet are glued to the floor, my gaze stuck on my motionless hands. “You were right about me needing to get away from this place for a bit. And it was nice, you and I.”

I contain the smile that threatens to grow across my face and clear my throat. Trying not to read too deeply into his words, but desperately wanting to, I shove my hands into my back pockets and turn on my heels, shifting my weight to one foot. “Yeah, sure,” I nod, and bite my lip half-mindedly. “I think it’d be good for you. For me, too,” I add with an exasperated breath. Rick smiles at my reaction and I nearly melt. I need him to leave so I can gather myself, but I know I don’t really want that. I tell myself to snap out of it, that it’s nothing but a friendly invitation, and that I just need some sleep.

But his hand on my shoulder begs me to reconsider.

“Goodnight, Reese,” is all he says before he strides to the door. He glances back once before disappearing upstairs to his room. 

His touch lingers on my skin like a caress. 


	9. New Problems

I would usually still be asleep at this time, but the group’s shouting and bickering woke me up this morning. I lingered in my cell for a moment to listen. Rick was telling the group he didn’t want to negotiate with the Governor - something about standing their ground and a future here at the prison and a bunch of other reasons that I could barely hear when his voice calmed down. It didn’t take a long time of eavesdropping to understand that the rest of the group was arguing against him. Herschel, as expected, told Rick to consider this a peaceful option. More shouting ensued. I grabbed my book and slipped out of my room, opting for a quiet morning in the sun, away from their palpable chaos. Only, the prison walls couldn’t keep their shouting inside. I rolled my eyes and failed to read a page before glancing at the fence, now surrounded by hungry walkers, their bloody fingers wrapped around the chain-link. As usual, I eye each one of them from the safety of my perch in the grass.  _ Not Robert,  _ I think. I study the next body.  _ Not Robert.  _ And the next one.  _ Definitely not Robert.  _ I laugh at myself for even hoping anymore.

A week has passed since Rick took me downstairs to look for my brother. I’ve spent it outside, laying in the sun just like this, book in hand. Whenever I offer to help around the prison, I get rejected with a polite smile from most and an annoyed, dismissive wave from others. It seems they’ve already had a decent set up before I arrived. There’s not really a place for me here other than just… existing - waiting for the storm to blow over so I can finally leave. I’ve spent many days planning out where I’ll go. There’s a cluster of woods in the distant east, the opposite direction from which I arrived nearly two weeks ago. I figure Robert must be out there somewhere. Perhaps he is seeking the hoard way out there. Perhaps he is already in the hoard. I clench my jaw at the thought, at how impossible it would be to find him in that, and force my nose into the book. 

I think I’ve memorized every plant in this book. I can differentiate between toxic, edible, and non-edible plants. I know which plants are found in this area, and the areas surrounding us. If I had an artistic bone in my body, I could probably even draw some of them by memory. There’s an entire library of books in the prison, but for some reason, I’d rather re-read this one from the little house. Anytime I want to transport myself back into the past, back into my life before any of this chaos existed, I just close my eyes and smell the pages. I can see my grandma’s grand bookcase, stuffed to the brim with old publications. I can hear my brother and sister listening to the radio. I can smell the bread cooking in the kitchen. I’m thwarted out of my little fantasy by a slamming door and boots on the gravel. It’s Rick.

My stomach drops at the sight of him. We haven’t spoken much at all since that night in my room. That suggestive invitation. That touch that I’ve dreamed about. It’s pathetic, really, the sort of puppy love infatuation I’ve developed for the man. He doesn’t even think of me like that - why would he? I’m probably a kid to him, as much as it hurts to admit. He’s got a whole life here, responsibilities, and two kids to look after. I’m just some girl who wandered uninvited into his territory and I’m not even welcome to stay long term. Rick hasn’t been ignoring me, necessarily, but he’s just been busy. He took Michonne and Carl to his hometown to look for more guns at his old job. Him and Daryl spend most of the days checking the fence for holes or walkers. He even went on a few solo supply runs. I had considered asking if I could join once, but I felt like I was prodding, like perhaps he prefers the solo runs to get away from everyone for a while. I know the feeling. So instead, I just waved him goodbye and asked him to grab me some chocolate, which he did.

“Supply run?” I ask as he passes by, his boots kicking up dust in the early morning sun. Just his presence makes me remember that night. His hand on my skin. His eyes searching mine. I clench my jaw and snap out of it. Rick shakes his head, leaning against the truck door.

“Nah,” he says. Already his tone is evidently annoyed. I bite my lip and return my attention to my book, though he continues speaking after a moment. “We got a meeting with the Governor,” he mutters, leaning against his truck door. I glance up and shift my posture, closing the book in my lap. 

“What? Why?” I ask, sounding more concerned than I’d like. I thought Rick would have been able to stand his ground in there, but I guess the group convinced him. I certainly don’t like the idea after what I’ve heard about the man. “Was it his idea?” 

“Sort of,” he shrugs and runs a hand through his hair. “Andrea says he’s got this proposal, a truce I guess, to divide up the land and stop botherin’ each other.”

“You don’t sound too happy about it,” I gather. He glances down at me with a twinkle of intrigue, his lips slightly parted as he studies me, as though he’s surprised I can read him. He’s an open book whether he thinks so or not. Everyone can read him, I think, they just choose to keep their mouths shut probably, because they know how he’ll react. I would hate to get on Rick’s bad side.  _ Again _ .

“Not necessarily about the meeting, no, but I would like a day off.” He stuffs his hands into his jean pockets. “Just to sit and relax for one minute.”

“Do it. I do it everyday,” I joke, a nod to my lack of help around here. Rick knows it. He’s seen me try to wiggle my way into chores, cooking, cleaning, organizing, and he’s seen me get waved off every time. He laughs a little at my self-deprecation and lightens his tone a bit. I even shock myself to see I’ve made him smile after a long morning of arguing. I bite the inside of my cheek to remind myself to stop reading into things that don’t exist. 

“Tell you what,” he says with a newfound energy. “When I get home later, I’ll come up with some things that need to get done around here. I can see you’re itchin’ to contribute.” I smile at his idea. 

“I just don’t want anyone to think I’m lazy,” I admit. I drop the book in my lap and look away, my eyes boring into the treeline again. I’ve memorized it by now. 

“You walked halfway across the country, Reese. Nobody thinks you’re lazy,” he says with a wink and climbs into the truck. 

Herschel and Daryl exit the prison, their heads down and their faces irritated. They both carry a weapon and enter the truck. Daryl slams his shut with a seemingly purposeful force. Herschel keeps his composure and sits patiently beside him. Rick rolls his eyes away from the men until he lands on me, speaking through the open window.

“Hopefully this meeting will end things and we can forget about their threats to take the prison,” Rick explains to me in a low voice. I feel a sense of responsibility. Is he confiding in me or just filling me in on what’s going on? Either way, it’s a major step up from a week ago when he wouldn’t let me say a word without punishing me for it. I nod and offer an encouraging smile, though it’s hard to pretend I’m not slightly worried for them. After what Beth has told me, I’d be wary to step into a room with that man. 

“C’mon, Rick. Ain’t got all day,” Daryl shouts from inside the truck. I purse my lips and nod at Rick, signalling that he should listen to the man, but Rick’s attention lingers between us and our conversation. After a breath, he breaks away and revs up the truck. 

“We won’t be long,” Rick says with a nod before veering down the driveway.

I watch as Carl closes the large gate behind them, locks it with a click, and heads up to the prison. I wave at the kid with a kind smile, but he only stares back, no emotion on his face, and keeps walking inside. 

///

With Rick gone, the group seems to lighten up. The loud bang of fists on tables and echoing shout matches have been replaced with a lighthearted chorus of laughter and chatter. They’ve left the main door open just a crack to let some fresh air in and though I don’t intend to, I can’t help but hear their conversations. 

Before long, Beth steps outside with a bowl in her hand, outstretched toward me.

“You hungry?” She asks, lingering near the door. Part of me wants to stay outside and avoid the group. I know they have other things to worry about and I’m just someone passing through, but it’s hard to not feel unwelcome in their downtime, like sharing meals or telling stories at night. The one time that I did join them in their bedtime group talks, I left early after Carol made a snide remark about  _ that girl who broke our fence.  _ She must have forgotten that I am that girl. Like they said before, they get a lot of visitors. Glenn gulped and looked away. Beth cleared her throat and changed the subject. Lately I’ve been locking myself in my room to eat and just listening to their nighttime stories from the comfort of my cell, but Beth’s kind eyes are hard to say no to. I can’t help but see my little sister in her. So, with a forced smile, I lift myself from the grass and walk inside.

“Thank you,” I say, taking the bowl of oatmeal and following the girl to the table where everyone sits. Even Michonne is here for once. We have a lot in common - unspoken, of course. For one, we keep our distance from the group. We are tucked away in our cells if we aren’t outside wandering around. When I was reading my book yesterday, she walked outside, sort of aimlessly. She found her way to the fence where she impaled a group of walkers, one by one, until they all fell silent on the grass. She stared down at them for a while before wiping off her long blade and returning to the prison. I wonder what they did to her in Woodbury, though I’ll never ask. 

I sit in the only empty seat, in between Michonne and Carol. The group continues their chatter without a word in my direction. I eat my food in silence and listen to Maggie’s story about growing up on the farm. I catch Glenn beaming at her and I smile, too. They aren’t bad people, or even mean people, I just haven’t found my place here. As I take another bite, I glance over to my left, noticing a pair of eyes on me in my peripheral. It’s Carl. He stares a moment longer before grabbing his bowl and walking to the sink. I look away and continue enjoying the meal and the chatty company.

“You grew up on a farm, too, right?” I hear Maggie ask, though it takes me a while to realize she’s talking to me. I look up from my food to see all eyes on me, except for Carol, who looks bored. I clear my throat and set my spoon down.

“Oh, no.” I shake my head. “Not a farm, just a little house on some acres in a pretty rural area. But my friends from the city liked to say it was a farm,” I explain with a small laugh and so does Maggie. 

“To them, any house outside the city might as well be a farm,” she adds. 

I catch myself smiling at the tiny connection. Aside from Beth and Rick, nobody really asks me about myself. I’m mostly grateful for that, however, because some topics are still a bit touchy even now. I’m sure we all feel that way, though.

After breakfast I head back to my spot in the grass and lose myself in the book. I learn about Georgia’s placement and how the climate is suitable for both northern plants and tropical plants. I read about jewelweed for treating poison ivy, sassafras for immune health, and flowering dogwood as a natural aspirin. I dog-ear the pages that seem important, but by the time I’m done, most of the book is folded. I look up at the sky and the high noon sun that is becoming more and more blinding with each passing minute. Shutting the book closed, I stand up and stretch my legs, ready to go inside for a while. That is, until Rick’s truck appears at the opening gate and pulls up to park. Carl closes the gate and walks back inside with a quiet Hershel. Daryl hops out of the truck and glances at me without a word before joining the rest in the prison. 

I lean against the cinder block walls and watch Rick exit the truck, his gaze a bit meandering. He pushes his long hair back with a deep sigh and leans against his truck.

“Didn’t go well, I assume?” I ask. Rick chuckles and looks around the yard. 

“Didn’t go as well as expected, but it could be worse, I guess,” he speaks gravelly. He takes a few breaths, some more like sighs, and rubs the back of his neck. “I could use a little escape. You in?”

I look around to see nobody else present, as though he were asking someone else. My heart flutters at his words, his confident stance, his seemingly effortless charm. I press my teeth together to stop a growing smile and lift my back off the hard wall. 

“Sure,” I nod. “Where to?”

He cocks his head toward the truck and I take the signal to climb into the passenger seat. Carl isn’t outside to open the gate, so I get out to do it. After Rick drives through, I close the gate behind us and latch the lock. Before I turn to hop back in, I meet Carl’s eyes. The boy stands at the top of this hill, his small arms crossed over his chest as he leans against the front door. I nod and turn on my heels. 

“Let’s go,” I say, and smile over at Rick. 


End file.
